by Louise Allen
I could not, for a moment, imagine a vivacious and beautiful young debutante falling for him, but that did not mean he might not fall for her. But, James was adamant that the rumours about him were true. On the other hand, I argued with myself, just because he can’t perform doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel desire. Perhaps he thinks he would be able to rise to the occasion with her.
‘Papa always says money is no object and besides, he was determined I should have a London Season.’ Other than brandishing a vast banner reading Gullible Heiress in front of him I wasn’t sure how much more vulgar I could be.
‘I am sure you will have a great success, Miss Lawrence. Your beauty combined with…Your beauty will assure that.’
‘Why thank you, Lord de Forrest.’
He found me a drink and we talked about trivia for a few minutes, then he introduced me to a group of single young ladies and gentlemen and quietly effaced himself.
They were a lively lot and simply absorbed me into their gossipy, flirtatious chatter. After a while I asked, ‘Lord de Forrest who introduced me – is he a particular friend of yours?’
They all laughed. Miss Hamilton, a willowy brunette with large eyes shook her head. ‘Goodness no, he is far too old for us. He has made up to all of us, of course, but with no luck. We all know he is after a fat dowry and, honestly, fortune hunters can be fun if they are handsome and dashing and wicked but he is just… dull.’
The men exchanged knowing looks and there were a few smirks. They had obviously heard the gossip about de Forrest’s lack of potency.
‘Oh. Well, he did not seem very interested in me and I was terribly indiscreet and let slip something about Papa’s fortune.’ Several of the young men straightened up and took a second look. De Forest obviously wasn’t the only fortune hunter around, or perhaps they automatically checked out all the heiresses in the hope of bringing home the best catch whether they needed the money or not.
‘That is because he was interested in Arabella Trenton,’ Miss Hamilton confided. ‘At least,’ she amended doubtfully, ‘That was the rumour. If it is true then I think she was all about in her head to even contemplate him because, frankly, she could do so much better. But I do not know if the match is off or not – if it were ever a reality. He does not seem exactly heartbroken or anxious about her absence, does he?’
‘Perhaps that is why she has vanished,’ someone said. ‘I mean, they say she has eloped with Sir Clement Selbourne, but he is around Town exactly as usual, nothing has been said and there is no sign of her. Perhaps she just ran away.’
‘Cottingham might have caught up with her and sent her off to rusticate in the country out of Selbourne’s way,’ Mr Felgrove suggested. ‘I had heard that he did not approve the match, although why I cannot imagine. But Cottingham is carrying on as though she really is missing. It is all very odd, don’t you think?’
‘She probably has measles or something,’ I said. Wasn’t a beauty in one of Georgette Heyer’s novels hiding away while the disfiguring pimples subsided? What was the title? Friday’s Child?
‘…brother seems very gloomy, I must say. He sent his apologies for Mama’s card party and she was most put out.’
I yanked my attention back from novels to the conversation. I had missed something, I thought uneasily. But what was there in a card party to interest me?
‘Will you excuse me? I have just seen my cousin over there and I must have a word with him.’ With a smile I set off in pursuit of Lucian whose broad shoulders were vanishing towards the rear of the largest room.
I spotted him behind a wall of potted plants with a statuesque, black-haired lady. The foliage gave enough cover to hide behind while I sized up what was distracting Lucian so effectively. One look and I could see the attraction – her modiste had managed a major feat of engineering in creating a bodice that somehow clung to the impressive slopes of her bosom without any visible means of support. It was just on the edge of decency and Lucian was looking quietly appreciative.
I can’t say I could blame him, even if I did want to tip my glass of champagne down her cleavage. He was a heterosexual male, after all. However, if he had plans for a cosy evening investigating how exactly she had been sewn into that gown they were doomed, because I had more important things for him to think about.
I rounded the plants and swept into their alcove pretending not to notice the dagger-looks from the lady or Lucian’s faint sigh of resignation. It had better be faint, I thought, given that he was hoping to get into my bed as well. ‘Cousin Lucian! There you are, I have been looking all over for you. Oh!’ I pretended to notice his companion for the first time. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
‘Not now,’ she said with a smile that showed a lot of sharp teeth, and swept out.
‘Oops. Sorry, only I have some really important things to tell you.’
‘Oops?’ One dark brow angled up. He didn’t seem too put out at having his amorous interlude, or whatever it was, interrupted.
‘I have just been drinking champagne with Lord de Forrest.’
‘How did you manage that without an introduction?’
‘I crashed into him because I was rushing out of the ladies’ retiring room too fast because I have had what I think is a breakthrough idea.’ The other brow went up. Lucian appeared to be collecting my unfamiliar expressions. I only hoped he didn’t use any of them and confuse dictionary compilers for generations to come. ‘Anyway, he was very gracious about it and escorted me to the refreshment room and then I realised who he must be, so I introduced myself.’
‘And how did you realise who he was?’
‘He reminded me of my great-grandmother.’
Both brows came down. ‘How many glasses of champagne have you had, Cassie?’
‘Only a couple. But Gramma loved Fougère du Bois fragrance and his cologne is very like that – ’
‘French fern.’
‘Exactly – you recall the note in Cottingham’s desk. Anyway, I introduced myself and proceeded to be very vulgar and dropped broad hints about my rich American father and de Forrest could not have been less interested. In fact he dumped me after a few minutes and wandered off.’
‘Dumped you?’ There went those eyebrows again.
‘Slang. Abandoned me with a feeble excuse. Never mind that, don’t you see what is so suspicious? I left him in no doubt that I was wealthy, had an indulgent father and was not very well chaperoned. If he doesn’t know where Arabella is, then he doesn’t seem at all worried – a little tense, perhaps, but not like a man who is missing his ticket to a fortune should look if he really has intentions towards her. On the other hand, if he knows she is dead, or out of his reach, but he is desperate for money, then he should have come on to me more strongly.’
Lucian’s lips moved, shaping come on to me. Then he nodded. ‘On the one hand, if he is absolutely innocent and his intentions towards Arabella are honourable, then he is nowhere near worried enough. On the other hand, if she has vanished and he sees his chance of a fortune vanishing he is doing nothing to look for another one. Which could mean he knows what has become of her and expects to get the money eventually.’
‘Exactly. And if we were wrong about him being interested in her, but right about him needing money, then why did he show no interest in my mythical fortune? So how do we get the truth out of him?’
‘He cannot have taken her – what would be the point? Nor is there any reason to suspect Cottingham would refuse him outright – they are more than mere acquaintances. The third possibility is that he is not concerned with her and also his financial problems have been exaggerated,’ he added gloomily.
‘Perhaps she is being held to ransom. That would explain the tension about him. Whatever he knows, he is not exactly relaxed. Not frantic with worry, simply tense.’ Like me. I realised I was biting the end of my fan.
‘And yet Cottingham is accusing Selbourne,’ Lucian pointed out. ‘If she has been abducted it would be far more likely that a demand would be m
ade to Cottingham rather than de Forest – he is her relative and the one with the funds.’ He paced about our small screened area. ‘And how did whoever has her, get her? We are still no further forward with that.’
‘We might be. I know what it was that was nagging at the back of my mind. I think her maid was involved in the plot all along, but I need to talk to Garrick to be certain, because I do not know enough about servants’ lives.’
‘We will make our excuses and leave.’ Lucian stepped out from behind the palms and scanned the room. ‘James is deep in conversation with some of the worst scandalmongers in Town.’ He nodded towards one corner where his brother’s blond head could be seen in the midst of perhaps a dozen men and women, all older than him and decidedly raffish in appearance.
Which reminded me that my tension was not simply anxiety over Arabella or the strain of coping with this new world. I was feeling decidedly amorous. ‘But don’t you want to get back to your scantily-clad friend?’
‘I do not.’ Lucian was decidedly tight-lipped now.
‘An ex-mistress?’ I enquired sweetly.
‘Cassandra.’ He turned, putting himself between me and the rest of the room. ‘That is not something discussed in public, for goodness sake!’
I tried his eyebrow trick and got a reluctant smile from him.
‘She was just reminding me why I do not regret that our ways parted some time ago. Which is an exceedingly ungallant thing for me to say.’
It cheered me up no end. If Lucian had been pining for statuesque sophisticates then I could forget my dilemma over whether to kiss him. And I could certainly stop considering doing anything else. As it was, I could go back to being conflicted about making love with him. Perhaps I was not so cheered after all.
‘I will go and tell James we are leaving, but he may well stay on if he is gleaning anything useful.’
We crossed the room and Lucian murmured in his brother’s ear. James nodded and went back to his group while Lucian offered me his arm and went to speak to Lady Maxton.
‘My cousin has a slight headache, ma’am. She is not used to our late nights.’
‘Jet lag,’ I murmured from behind my fan and smiled faintly when they both looked at me. ‘I do apologise, Lady Maxton, I was so enjoying your lovely musicale, but my wretched head…’
‘I quite understand, my dear. I can recall my own come-out. Why, I had to stay in bed for three days after the Duchess of Worthington’s ball. Ah, happy days. Off you go and get your beauty sleep, child.’
Chapter Sixteen
Lucian kept silent during the short drive back, but he almost bundled me into the apartment as he shouted for Garrick.
‘Miss Lawrence believes that Miss Trenton’s maid is lying,’ he said as Garrick took my cloak and gloves and Lucian’s outer garments. ‘She needs to consult you.’
‘I do not know enough about the life of servants, you see,’ I explained as we settled around the unlit fireplace. ‘But Martha Toms said that her hot milk had been drugged. There seems to be no question that she was drugged and that was how it was done, but surely it is not usual for a maidservant to go off to bed with a mug of hot milk, is it? I mean, the cook in that household was furious with one of the footmen taking a glass as a snack.’
‘No,’ Garrick said slowly. ‘It is not normal and I should have seen it. Although if she had drunk her mistress’s milk which wasn’t wanted that evening, that would explain it.’
‘She referred to it as her milk. Lord Cottingham did not pick up on it.’
‘He probably has little to do with the domestic staff and he has more on his mind than thinking about small details,’ Lucian said. ‘For all I know, Garrick takes himself off to bed with hot milk every night.’
‘Hardly, my lord.’ The valet’s tone was repressive. ‘And surely, if the milk had been intended for Miss Trenton, then the fact that it was drugged would be highly significant. Yet no-one commented.’
‘We need to talk to Martha again,’ I said. ‘And we need to do it without Lord Cottingham breathing down our neck. She will never talk if he’s looming over her and threatening dismissal.’
‘She may well deserve it,’ Lucian said.
‘Yes, well, let’s get her to tell us first. How can we do that?’
‘Cottingham instructed his butler to take you to speak to the girl when we called,’ Lucian said. ‘If we arrive when Cottingham is out and ask to see her, with any luck the man will assume the former instructions hold good and arrange it.’
‘How do we know when Cottingham will be safely out of the way?’
‘Leave that to me, Miss Lawrence,’ Garrick said. ‘I suggest that it will be the afternoon. But not tomorrow.’
‘Why not? This could be a breakthrough, we should hurry.’
‘It is Sunday tomorrow.’
‘There is no chance of catching her then?’
‘To call on a Sunday to speak to a servant would seem exceptionally strange,’ Lucian said. ‘It might well cause the butler to query it with Cottingham.’
‘Oh.’ I felt thoroughly deflated. ‘What is there to do on a Sunday then?’
Garrick said, ‘Attend church,’ just as Lucian sent me a heavy-lidded look full of so much meaning that I felt myself blush.
‘Which church?’ I had read about the Chapel Royal, attached to St James’s Palace, which sounded exceedingly glamorous, and about St George’s, Hanover Square where fashionable weddings took place.
‘St James’s is just across Piccadilly from here. We could go there,’ Lucian said. I was beginning to hear the unspoken words beneath his politeness and, although he might be a gentleman seeking to oblige a lady, I had the strong suspicion that he was not a regular church-goer and was simply picking the nearest place of worship for convenience.
‘What about the Chapel Royal? Is there any chance of seeing some of the royal family if we go there?’ It might be more interesting for Lucian – it certainly would for me.
Garrick brightened up visibly. ‘The Chapel Royal? In that case the new suit, my lord. And the new hat. And Madame sent over some more gowns for Miss Lawrence and three bonnets.’
‘Garrick, we are discussing a church service, not a fashionable reception,’ Lucian said, obviously striving for suitable gravitas. I guessed that when he was at his country estate he would turn out for church to do his bit as leading landowner and read the lesson, but that here in London, with no Dowager Countess to nag him and no children to give an example to – let alone what was presumably a mass of forelock-tugging tenants – he was free to kick back and relax.
‘We are discussing the Chapel Royal, my lord,’ Garrick said severely. ‘From all that one hears it might as well be a secular entertainment. And if you and Miss Lawrence are to appear there, then it is more than my professional pride will allow for you to be less than perfectly turned out.’
‘Very well, so be it. Garrick, what time do we have to be assembled in our finery?’
‘I would suggest at ten, my lord. I will endeavour to find a prayer book for Miss Lawrence.’
It was a lovely sunny morning so we walked, or rather strolled, along Piccadilly and down St James’s Street. I managed parasol, prayer book, reticule and my skirts, did my best not to gawp around me in an unladylike manner and rested my fingertips (the ones not managing parasol etc etc) on Lucian’s arm. He, meanwhile, had nothing to do but saunter along looking handsome and masculine, guarding me from whatever perils a Sunday in Mayfair might hold.
‘Oh, look, Hoby’s!’ I stopped dead at the top of St James’s Street.
‘Yes?’
‘Do you have your boots made there?’
‘I do. How did you know?’
‘They are famous. They made the Duke of Wellington’s boots for him and we still wear Wellington boots.’
‘Who is the Duke of Wellington? Is that another oops?’
‘Yes, it is. You’ll find out in a year or so though.’
‘And these boots – ladies wear them as
well as men?’ I could see Lucian wrestling with what he knew of twenty first century clothing – cashmere yoga wear, sports bras and wellies. It was obviously too much for his imagination. ‘You must not stand and stare at gentlemen’s outfitters.’ I was wheeled firmly around the corner and down the hill.
He proved just as disobliging when it came to pointing out the famous St James’s clubs to me. I knew we would be passing White’s, Brooke’s and Boodles – they were still there and I had seen them in my time – but I was swept past with no opportunity to stare back at the gentlemen inside ogling the passing throng through their quizzing glasses.
St James’s Palace at the foot of the hill looked just as I remembered it – although the traffic sweeping around the corner from Pall Mall and turning up St James’s Street was calmer than the usual stream of cars and taxis and buses and the red Tudor brick was a lot dirtier. Hundreds of years of coal fires and no modern restoration techniques, I supposed.
‘Lucian, please stop – it is Lock’s the hatters.’ I had once walked down St James’s to look at them, and the wine merchants, Berry Brothers and Rudd, almost next door, just where they were then…now…when… I was getting confused. I took a deep breath. ‘This shop is still just here in my time. And Berry Brothers as well. I bought my father a special bottle of claret in there for his birthday last year. Can’t we – ’
‘No.’ Lucian checked the traffic and stepped out into the road.
‘Yes.’ I dug my heels in and that probably saved our lives as a closed carriage pulled by a team of two horses swept down St James’s Street, swerved round the corner flat-out and hurtled straight towards us.
Lucian twisted, flung himself across me and took the blow as the shoulder of the lead horse hit us. If I hadn’t stopped to try and look at the shops they would have gone straight over us, as it was we landed on the kerb in a confused flurry of hooves and limbs and flying parasol.
‘Ough.’ I tried to sit up but Lucian was across my legs, face down and, apparently unconscious. ‘Lucian?’ I got a hand free and fumbled for his neck to try and find a pulse and there, thankfully, it was, hammering away beneath the thin kid of my gloves. I still couldn’t sit up and I daren’t just roll him off in case his spine was damaged. Then the noise around us resolved itself into screams and shouts and running feet and something bulky fell to the ground beside me as I was gathered into a smothering, squashy embrace.